And the Colonel, to emphasise his words, flung himself into the appropriate attitude, throwing his left hand up behind his head, and lunging fiercely with the right.
"Go and look for my pince-nez, my dear," said Mrs. Clibborn, turning to Mary. "I think they're in my work-basket or in your father's study."
Mary was glad to leave the room, about which the Colonel stamped in an ever-increasing rage, pausing now and then to take a mouthful of bread and cheese. The request for the glasses was Mrs. Clibborn's usual way of getting rid of Mary, a typical subterfuge of a woman who never, except by chance, put anything straightforwardly.... When the door was closed, the buxom lady clasped her hands, and cried:
"Reginald! Reginald! I have a confession to make."
"What's the matter with you?" said the Colonel, stopping short.
"I am to blame for this, Reginald." Mrs. Clibborn threw her head on one side, and looked at the ceiling as the only substitute for heaven. "James Parsons has jilted Mary—on my account."
"What the devil have you been doing now?"
"Oh, forgive me, Reginald!" she cried, sliding off the chair and falling heavily on her knees. "It's not my fault: he loves me."
"Fiddlesticks!" said her husband angrily, walking on again.
"It isn't, Reginald. How unjust you are to me!"